


In the Halls

by farthest_stars



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Athrabeth references, Canon Compliant, First Age, Gen, Halls of Mandos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2020-11-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:03:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27657913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/farthest_stars/pseuds/farthest_stars
Summary: Finrod in the Halls of Mandos from his death to his second life.
Relationships: Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 25





	In the Halls

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, so, we are doing Tolkien fanfiction now.  
> Firstly, this is my very first fic in English, so apologies in advance for any mistakes you found. Writing in your second language is very hard because a lot of times you are struggling to translate the idea into the words you are less familiar with. I hope that I was able to do it.  
> Secondly, this fic was born from a lot of reading and discussions on Tolkien's philosophy and theology, so if you by any chance want to chat about it, welcome here: https://farthest-stars.tumblr.com/
> 
> Enjoy<3

Death did not feel how he imagined it to be at all.

Finrod had known that he was going to die for years now since the fateful evening he was able to glimpse a small part of the Song ahead. He had tried to picture it, the bright flash of the moment his fëa will leave his hröa behind to go to Mandos. Maybe he would not even feel pain, would not even notice the quick blow of Orcish sword or arrow, or the heat of the fire that has already taken so many of his people. 

But this… This was different. Finrod felt like everything was gradually fading into the darkness around him. His mind could not comprehend what was happening, neither the blinding agony from his wounds nor Beren singing and weeping quietly. He had tried as hard as he could to gather the remnants of his strength and murmur more reassurances to the man. He had tried to say again that all of this is not his fault and the fact that he is alive is all that matters but Finrod only managed a small choking sound.

Slowly the darkness enveloped him fully. The last thing Finrod saw was a small ray of early morning light on the ceiling of their cell, and the last thing he felt was Beren's warm embrace as he was clutching him like it could bring him to life.

* * *

Darkness, Finrod later discovered, was not frightening. Perhaps the twisted marred guise of it that Morgoth and his servants used was, but the darkness of the Halls was reassuring. It was warm and rich violet like the clear summer night, only the sky was around him, great and endless, and far above the clouds of twilight grey and lilac were swirling. High columns made of marble had more in common with shadows than architecture, a fleeing reminder that the Halls had a form and an end.

And then, there were fëar. They moved around in silence and spoke only with their thoughts. After seeing them – and seeing himself now – Finrod was reminded of small sparks of light rather than fully formed Quendi he knew they were. Some of them seemed to forget their hröar entirely, the transparent almost-figures enveloped in their hurts, losses, and grief. For he knew now that all of it the Children brought with them. In the beginning, only the stillness, the eternity of simple existence without further suffering inflicted, and slow healing dwelt there.

Curiously Finrod did not feel the weight of death on himself. After only a few moments, he understood that his cautiousness and awareness had fully returned, as well as his memories. They passed through him at first, like a waterfall of sunlight through colored glass paintings his people adored so much, and then, reflected in his self, became an integral part of what he considered to be Finrod Felagund, Nóm of the Noldor.

Now that he had an eternity to contemplate everything around him, he naturally started to look for answers. Why did it happen to him but not to other fëar? How was he able to recover himself so quickly? Maybe, he thought, the reason was out in the open. He had only brought his _estel_ in the Halls. All else that was him: the bitterness of betrayal, and the horrors of Morgoth's destruction he witnessed, and the joy of creation of concepts, and stone carvings, and music fair as spring, and simple talks with friends, and the wonder of learning and teaching all peoples in the world, and the icy hatred for Gorthaur and all others who thought themselves entitled to destroy it or bend it to their will – it was all stripped away from him when their disguises fell, and he lost the duel. All that was left to him was a faint hope. 

Hope that this Quest was the only way to save them all. Hope that gifted him the striking clarity that Beren, the one who can defeat the Doom itself for his love of fair Lúthien, must live at all cost.

* * *

So, now his fëa walked the Halls alone. Sometimes he guarded the fear of his faithful companions, seeking to light their burden somehow. Sometimes he could see his kin: Fëanaro, burning bright even in death, and Nolofinwë, his king and liege, surrounded by the sharp cold spikes of despair, and Aikanaro, his beloved brother, who was enveloped in the smoke of grief thicker than the black smoke of Thangorodrim on the eve of his death. Sometimes among countless Noldor, Sindar, Teleri, Nandor, and Avari, all equal in death, he could glimpse Angarato deep in the healing sleep. For a moment Finrod even thought that he had seen Irissë's features through the grey mist of sadness that surrounded one fëa.

One time he met Finwë. By now his grandfather, the High King of the Noldor, looked more like a Maia of Lord Námo than an Elf. He merely said "Oh, my dear boy…" and Finrod felt like something warm lightly touched his cheek. Bright grey eyes of his grandfather, so similar to his own, grew softer and wiser than they ever were in life, and the lack of rich garments or the crown did not make him less kingly. 

"I had long ago come in terms with my eternal stay in the Halls," Finwë said, "and now I seek only to help and guide those in need." Finrod lowered his eyes then, feeling traitorous disappointment rising inside of him. Why couldn't he find it in himself before his death? A small action or a simple word could stop the madness, and torment, and death that fell upon them. Next, he knew that his grandfather tenderly made him raise his gaze. "I will not change it," he said, "you all worth that, you all worth more than I can ever pay."

* * *

Intellectually Finrod knew that he should be at peace in Mandos, healing away from the cruelties of the mortal world, but he could not. He had the eerie sense of foreboding and unease, the same kind that fell on him in days before Beren came to Nargothrond to seek his help. It should have been impossible there. It was the place where the talent to see the glimpses of the Song was lost to him, so when the weight of this feeling he couldn't endure longer, Finrod went looking for Nienna. She was easy to spot in her robes of black and silver, with fair tear-stained face and her hair of pale gold flowing behind her even though no wind blew in the Halls since their creation.

"So, at last, you seek me, son of Arafinwë," the Valië said, "I admit I'd thought you would not."

"Why is that my lady?" Finrod asked meeting her dark eyes shining with infinite sorrow and infinite compassion. He had met Nienna a lot during his wanderings in Mandos, tending to the fëar lost in the darkness, but she never attempted to speak with him.

"Do not think I find your curiosity lacking," a small smile seemed foreign on the face of the Valië like her, "but when I come to my brother's Halls I come as a guide. To those who were broken, and to those who lost their way, and those who see themselves beyond saving." Then Nienna placed her hand, light as a feather, on Finrod's shoulder. "You are neither, Findaráto Ingoldo, Felagund of Nargothrond. You are not broken; you are finally whole. You know your soul, to the darkest corner of your mind, and your purpose, all that is yourself. Do not trouble yourself further," her lips gently touched his forehead, "but come to my halls once you leave my brother. I would be glad to count you among my students."

"You know of our Doom, my lady."

"Is your Doom endless, Findaráto? Once you did not believe so."

* * *

His sense of foreboding came to an end once Lúthien of Doriath appeared to the Halls. At first, Finrod could not believe it when he had heard the song sweeter and sadder than any he had known. He was drawn to it. The melody was guiding him and other Quendi through the Halls into the throne room, where they all saw her, the fairest of them all. The elf-maiden was shining brighter than the memory of stars they kept here, and she was pleading before the Lord Námo for her love. Finrod listened, feeling relief, and delight and something yet unknown to him, the faith in his heart slowly becoming knowledge. It seemed to him that other fëar around him were becoming closer to healing just by listening to that tale too. _They will be alright,_ he thought, _it will be a long and hard road, but they all will be alright_.

Then the world trembled when Mandos had pronounced his doom, and the choice was made by Thingol's daughter. When Beren and Lúthien were leaving together, he thought for a moment that they saw him watching.

* * *

After they left Námo beaconed Finrod to come closer, so he knelt before his throne. He felt the searching gaze of the Doomsman of Valar on himself as if Mandos was deep in a fierce debate with someone else. Then, at last, he spoke "Findaráto Ingoldo son Arafinwë. All that should have been done is done. Your deeds, and the deeds of Beren and Lúthien have changed the world, and they will be remembered in tales and songs long after the last of the Quendi will fade on Mortal Shores. Now I deem you healed and free. Do you wish to walk among your people in Valinor again?"

Finrod raised his gaze in disbelief. To live again… To become more than a fëa like he was once. To feel the warmth of the sun on his skin, to walk again, really walk, counting steps and feeling the solid earth below his feet. But all of these were just dreams: he was of the Noldor, and he made his choice on the cold shore of Araman hundreds of years ago.

At last, he said, "I do, Lord Námo. I cannot deny that to be alive, truly alive, is, perhaps, my greatest wish. But I also was there when you pronounced our fate: to abide in this Halls yearning for the bodies we shall never have. I know it to be true because it had never left me."

"I did." The voice of Námo remained cold and unchanged. "But you said it yourself once before. The Noldor are the doom of their own. It was you who slew other Children. It was you who fought, and grieved, and despaired, and hurt, and were hurt, and would perhaps never heal. That was merely a prediction, as no power can prevent you from reaping what you sow."

"What changed now?" Finrod asked, feeling uncertainty creeping into his mind. Could it be that he was wrong? Could it be that there is nothing that can stop the ruthless circle of retribution for the crimes Noldor committed?

Then there was a sudden shift in Mandos, though his face remained a frozen mask. Finrod did not know what exactly it was, but it reminded him strangely of delight, but he was unsure that the one who represented a consequence was capable of it. "You've said it yourself too, Finrod Felagund. There is always by the grace of a guiding force of good beyond any of the Children a chance of salvation, and the courage to take it is powerful enough to change this world. So, I offer you to be a messenger of it to the people who were left behind, to be the one who will tell them that some days their loved will return to them. Will you do it?"

The relief flooded Finrod like a tidal wave. He couldn't know what would happen to Beleriand, and it was not in his power to change it anymore, but now he can choose to live again, and in time his brothers and cousins may too. He would see his parents and Amarië laugh again, and aunt Anairë and aunt Nerdanel would smile and welcome their family home one day – he only has to say one word.

"Yes. I will do it then."


End file.
